


Strut My Stuff

by The_Wavesinger



Category: Agent Carter (TV)
Genre: F/F, Fluff, Post-Canon, past Steve Rogers/Peggy Carter - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-14
Updated: 2018-02-14
Packaged: 2019-03-15 03:20:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,343
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13604466
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Wavesinger/pseuds/The_Wavesinger
Summary: Peggy's and Angie's neighbour is nosy; Angie has news.





	Strut My Stuff

**Author's Note:**

  * For [emmawicked](https://archiveofourown.org/users/emmawicked/gifts).



Margaret Rogers is one odd girl, Mrs. Elise Masters of Whitestone, Queens, thinks, watching the young woman look both ways, scanning the street with her hand clutching her bag-strap tightly even as she unlatches her gate and darts in. Paranoid, that one, in a way that is absolutely, what did Anna call it, _unbecoming_ , and constantly in some kind of trouble, judging by the frequency of her nightly misadventures (does that girl ever _sleep_ ) and the sheer quantity of dashing men in handsome clothes who somehow manage to find themselves and their ridiculously expensive cars on her doorstep.

Still, she's a war-widow, married to a brave young Captain whose name Elise doesn't know, because Margaret never says it (heartbroken, Elise thinks, and her secret romantic side thrills). There are _two_ Medals of Honor on her mantelpiece, and lots of other decorations too; the girl must have had so many frights during the war (although she'd been whatever the English calls WACs, so some of them _might_ be hers). There are no pictures, though, so he must've died in some gruesome, grisly way, too. Given all that, Elise is willing to allow the poor thing some allowance for her wildness.

Her roommate, though? That one is trouble. An actress (or she wants to be one, anyway), and pretty enough to turn the head of every decent young man she flirts with. A wicked streak, too, and _Italian_ to boot. And she must be _leeching_ off Mrs. Rogers, given that she's a failed actor and nowhere near as classy as Mrs. Rogers.

Mrs. Rogers is classy in a _funny_ way, though. Mrs. Rogers is sprawled out on her couch, the sun glinting off the French doors through which Elise can see her, talking to herself right now—Elise can see her lips moving—and no sane person would do _that_.

“ _Englishwomen_ ,” Elise sniffs. “Stuck-up airs and no sense.” She turns back to her begonias—they won't suddenly decide to run off with the next attractive young man they see.

 

* * *

 

Peggy Carter, Founder and Director of the Strategic Homeland Intervention , Enforcement, and Logistics Division, kicks off her heels and sinks into the soft cushions of the couch with a grateful sigh. _Heaven_.

The downside of being in charge of a top-secret intelligence agency is that it involces a lot of _paperwork_ and _phonecalls_ and making nice with people who don't like her. It feels like she's getting a taste of what life as an actual telephone operator is like, sometimes, only with more responsibilities and more lives on the line. And there would be more chance of getting fieldwork as a SSR secretary, too, something about being "too valuable" to send out. (Howard is absolutely nuts. Honestly.) Although navigating interagency politics is more difficult than not dying while cutting straight across a firefight. (She's done both. She should know.) Especially on the two hours of sleep she'd gotten last night. Her mouth still tastes like something died in it.

“I would kill for someone to get me one of the '35 bottles right now,” she tells the shiny new television (a gift from Howard; he's crazy, but he's alright sometimes) sitting in the corner of the living room.

The television doesn't respond.

Peggy considers sticking her tongue out at it, but decides it was too much effort. _Damn_ it.

At least it's Angie's turn to cook.

“Honey, I'm home.” The latch clicking, and then Angie's voice. Speak of the devil. (An exceptionally gorgeous, sweet, and vivacious devil, though, because Angie is really a very lovely person and Peggy loves her more than a little bit. Especially when she's cooking delicious food.)

“I'm in the living room,” Peggy calls. She'd get up, but even Angie's presence isn't enough to banish the exhaustion that's sunk into the very marrows of her bones. (She's really, really tired. It bears repeating.)

The click-click of Angie's heels (she sounds as if she's positively _bouncing_ ) on the hardwood floor, and then Angie herself appears.

She looks a dream, as always, perfectly curled hair and a bright smile (and full red lips, so eminently kissable--but no, Peggy, don't jump her the moment she's at home) both firmly in place, but there's an extra spring to her--everything that isn't usually there.

:How was your day?” Peggy asks. Then, as she makes her way across the room to her, “Not that I object to any kind of attention from you, but Mrs. Mansion's trying to pretend she's not watching us, so you should probably close the curtain if you're going to kiss me.”

Angie grins as she complies. “Which one of us is going to elope with Howard today?”

“Both,” Peggy suggests. “It's a regular ménage à trois.”

Angie laughs, clear and tinkling. “You, Peggy Carter, are a menace.”

“I try.” Then, because Angie's laugh is even brighter than usual, “What's got you so excited today, live?”

“Oh!” Angie grins, as if just reminded. “My audition for The Threepenny Opera went through. I'm an _actress_ , Peggy!”

Oh. _Oh_.

Peggy flies up from the couch to enfold Angie in a tight embrace, tiredness forgotten. Because Angie is going to be on Broadway (or, near enough; she remembers Angie talking exitedly about how _big_ this show is going to be for not being on Broadway, chattering on about it being the biggest revival of the decade, but the important thing is that she's got the part). She's going to be an _actress_ , in more than just name!

Angie's half-laughing, half-crying, and Peggy can feel her cheeks getting damp, too, even as she grabs Angie and swings her around in a wide cricle. Her tiredness has miraculously vanished, and she peppers Angie's face with tiny kisses, holding her tight.

At length, they collapse on the couch, a tangle of arms and legs, all wrapped up in each other.

Angie's still panting as she speaks. (The panting is very unattractive and shouldn't make Peggy want to pounce on her and tear her clothes off, but it does. Because it's Angie.) “It's not a principal role, I'm still ensemble—”

“Oh hush, Angie, you're going to be _onstage_.” Peggy pecked Angie's lips to silence her, a chaste, sweet kiss. Anything deeper and she's going to get too hot under the collar to keep her hands to herself. (The world realising just how wonderful Angie is makes Peggy want to mark her up. This girl is _mine_ , she thinks.

But they should really celebrate properly first. Peggy knows how to treat a girl right, even if she sometimes pretends she doesn't just to get Angie to laugh. "I think this calls for one of the good champagne bottles, don't you? Or the '35 wine?"

“A kiss first?”

“Again?” But that's just teasing; Peggy never minds kissing Angie. Especially not like this, warm lips and nipping teeth and a melting pool of fire burning in the pit of her stomach, especially when she already wants to work Angie over until she's screaming.

After they break away from each other (with great reluctance, at least on Peggy's part), Angie raises one eyebrow. "What, you didn't think I didn't notice how hot and bothered you are, Fancy-Ass Spy?"

Peggy's mouth is dry. The coy look Angie gives her is possible the least subtle thing ever, but it still makes her all hot and bothered. "Excuse me for wanting to treat a girl properly." (She tries to huff, but it comes out more like a groan.)

"You can treat me properly in your bed, English."

 _Now_ she pounces.

The '35 wine will wait. She has a girl to make love to.

 

* * *

 

The girls are at it _again_ , strange shapes moving behind the curtains if you look hard enough, faint noises that sound like shrieking and giggling and, well, _private_ things. Elise probably ought to be worried enough to get someone to check on them, but it's probably one of their gentlemen callers. Elise disapproves of them, but not enough to embarrass them in front of the entire neighbourhood. She'll let them be for now.

**Author's Note:**

> The title is, of course from Sondheim (Broadway Baby to be exact).
> 
> The Medal of Honor _can_ be awarded to the same person more than once. (I didn't know this before I started researching for this fic!)


End file.
